


The Many Meetings of a Falling Prince

by DoreyG



Category: The Histories - Herodotus
Genre: As he did in reality, Blowjobs, Community: kink_bingo, Fantasy!Sex, M/M, MANY blowjobs, Masturbation, Oral Fixation, Themistokles basically screwing up Xerxes' life, fantasy relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:01:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xerxes meets Themistokles, and is fascinated for the next twenty years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Many Meetings of a Falling Prince

**Author's Note:**

> WRitten for the Oral Fixation square of my Kink_Bingo and kinda... Well, GREW.
> 
> I should say, for the interests of being a Classics pedant myself, that most of the events in this story did not take place in reality. Xerxes did not meet Themistokles as a teenager, and he probably wasn't regent around the battle of Marathon. He also might not have had that active a role in defending against the Ionian revolts.
> 
> ...He did fuck up mightily at Salamis, though.

The first time he met (sort of met, if a meeting counts when only one party has any knowledge of it) Themistokles he had just turned nineteen. Not a boy, no – certainly not a boy, but not feeling like a man either. His beard was short, his adult clothes felt strange, the interested glances that the ladies of the court sent sat awkwardly on his shoulders.

…Everything sat awkwardly on his shoulders.

And so he preferred to lurk, to hide, to stand in the background and watch as his father (the great Darius) and his mother (the fierce Atossa) dealt with the business of the empire. He knew he should’ve been arrogant, loud and angry and challenging at every opportunity, but- _but_ -

He was barely nineteen.

And he was barely nineteen when he met Themistokles for the first time.

“Speak!”

Just one man in a mass of Athenians, a legal embassy sent from the new ‘democracy’ (such a strange word). He shouldn’t have stood out from the crowd at all, he should’ve just been another one to sneer at and then forget. And yet…

It wasn’t his hair (even if it did look like it’d be good to wind fingers into), dark and coiling on his head. 

It wasn’t his eyes (even if they did look like they could melt with a well placed glance), cunning and shining with slightly more lustre than those of his countrymen.

It wasn’t his _body_ (even if it did look absolutely _perfect_ for rutting up against), tight and muscled under his tunic despite all his claims to be a man of purely peace.

…No.

It was his mouth. Rich, curving, quick as he somehow took over proceedings despite being only a junior party (despite looking only a few years older than him, if he was to be absolutely honest). It was that tongue. Those teeth. Those handsome lips caressing the words as if they were the poems exchanged between lovers instead of simple diplomatic nothings.

And he was caught from that very first sight.

(He made an effort to bump into the man afterwards, slipping into the disorganized crowd and affecting the carelessness of some rather useless servant – just in case Themistokles was attracted, just so he had the option (if he _wasn’t_ attracted) of backing out without the fear of imperial insult.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, staggering back – slightly reeling from the touch of warm flesh, “I didn’t mean to-“

“That’s alright,” Themistokles smirked, only briefly glancing over, “just try not to do it again, your _master_ would not be pleased.”

…And then he was gone, the crowds forcing him on.

And he only had the lingering heat of skin, and the memory of those lips curving around yet more words, to remember him by (To _dream_ on.))

 

\--

 

He used those short memories over the next few years, to the point where they almost became ragged. He thought of the man, _the_ Themistokles, whenever he was alone – thought of his mouth, his tongue, the way he’d smirked as if speech was his unshakeable ally instead of a thing that could easily be turned against him.

Some nights it was just thoughts. Standing in the quiet corridors outside banquets, staring at the setting sun with the wind gently ruffling his hair and the embellished images of Themistokles dancing through his mind.

Some nights it was finding a man with a faint resemblance. Allowing himself to be led back to cramped rooms (or no rooms at all, just a tiny curtain between them and the world), fucked and fingered and blown on the floor until he could half convince himself that the man really was in bed with him.

Some nights…

He slams the door of his room shut behind him, hurriedly makes sure that it’s properly locked before making his way over to the bed – ripping roughly at his clothes with every single step.

(He briefly gets tangled in his very fine tunic. Swears and tears his way out of it just before the backs of his knees hit the sheets.)

The cool, mildly cool – the sun is setting again, air on his skin is something akin to bliss. He groans at it, closes his eyes, tips his head back and imagines Themistokles above him – Themistokles smiling, Themistokles trailing fingers through his chest hair ever so teasingly.

(“My mouth again, my dearest Persian prince?” He would ask softly, smile turning into a grin as he bent down to lay biting kisses across his flushed chest, “it is a good thing that I adore you so…”)

And then Themistokles would move, lower and lower – taking his time. Teeth would trail across his collarbone and he would groan, absurdly hard only at _that_. A tongue would lap softly across his nipples and he would gasp the man’s name, receive unhelpful chuckles in reply. Lips would trail their way slowly over his stomach and he would arch, only held back by a wonderfully firm arm across his hips. Themistokles-

(Themistokles would laugh, he imagines, just before he leant in.)

-Would pause barely a moment before swallowing him down, making him _screech_. Wouldn’t hold back, wouldn’t pause, wouldn’t falter – would just keep going and going: lapping that tongue, twisting his head, hollowing his cheeks, ever _onwards_ in such a relentless way.

(Such a whimpering, hot way. That name mumbled on every single breath.)

When he came Themistokles would draw back after a final few languid pumps. Would hover for a few seconds, cleaning flushed skin with a fastidious tongue, before sliding his way back up – making sure that thigh brushed against thigh and stomach brushed against stomach and chest brushed against chest. “I really do adore you,” he’d say sincerely, smirk fading back to fond smile.

(And he’d lean in for a kiss, and he’d taste himself on those perfect lips and arch up against the man with helpless enthusiasm and-)

And he comes in his room, on his own. His hand falling away from his cock as he pants lonely upon the bed and imagines Themistokles coiling contentedly up besides him.

 

\--

 

The second time he heard of (not met: matters had gone rather too far for meeting by that point) Themistokles he had just turned twenty four. Definitely no longer a boy, no, most certainly a man. His beard had grown a little longer, his clothes sat more comfortably on his broader shoulders and he’d started to smile back whenever those ladies of the court fluttered their eyelashes.

…Perhaps the imaginary Themistokles still coiling in his head had emboldened him.

He was more prominent now, more _loud_. Not as rebellious as a prince was expected to be, no, but his father was a great man and there was no shame in respecting that. He was starting to become a builder, a soldier, a proper heir who the empire could be handed easily over to.

He was starting to be included in matters of government.

“Themistokles,” and so he was there when Otanes spat the name, actually _spat_ it with his hands fisted and his face red.

He blinked, frowned, looked slowly up as his hands kept tracing over the charts, “what?”

“Themistokles-“

“What _about_ him?”

Otanes, dearest brother-in-law, blinked – Possibly at the note of fascination in his tone. But he was Darius’ son and he was Darius’ heir and so he simply had to raise his eyebrow to get the man moving again, speaking again in a slightly begrudging way, “he and his ships, your highness. Appearing out of nowhere, giving aid to the damned Ionians and stealing our supplies and then disappearing again!”

He tilted his head at that, thoughtful.

“…Oh.”

“He helped set fire to Sardis, you know,” Otanes continued darkly, rubbing at his beard so hard that it was a wonder he didn’t end up clutching handfuls of bloody hair, “probably laughed as the flames went through the city. He always has been that type of bastard, your highness, that utterly smug and pointless and punchable-“

“I know,” he lied, boredly so he didn’t have to hear any more of Otanes’ (largely pointless) ranting, “a quite horrible general who shall be crushed in due time. Now, about the rumours of the Athenians pulling out of the alliance…?”

And Otanes grumbled, obviously wanting to complain at greater length. But he was still Darius’ son and still Darius’ heir and his eyebrow was _still_ raised – so the man had to carry on, no matter _what_ his objections may have been.

(He wondered, all through the subsequent discussions, if Themistokles had actually laughed as the city burned. And also wondered, in a way that was almost guilty but not quite, how he must’ve looked as he did.

…His chest must have shook.

His eyes must’ve glinted.

His smile must’ve _shone_ as he turned to his men behind him and ordered a speedy retreat-

His open mouth must’ve been beautiful.

Wide, careless, joyful and _shining_ in the light of the flames. His teeth must’ve flashed, sharp and white as he turned on his heel and started to jog away. His lips must’ve settled handsomely afterwards, slightly cracked from the heat but still so immanently (impossibly) kissable.

He sat in his room after the meeting, wrote a lustful letter across wrinkled paper and stared at it for a long while.

…He threw it in the flames in the end. The matter would have to remain nothing more than an absolutely glorious dream.)

 

\--

 

He may be going up in the world now, may be a man and a proper _heir_ , but he still has his preferences. And tonight (With the fresh news of Themistokles. The Fresh _news_ ) he fancies indulging them with another person, another hot body to writhe underneath him.

The man that he picks is tall, like Themistokles. With curly hair, like Themistokles. With flashing eyes, like Themistokles.

With curving mouth, like _Themistokles_ , and it’s that last detail that has him edging up. Making a suggestion in a low tone and smiling as the man agrees.

He’ll always have his preferences, after all.

The walk back to his bedroom is too long, and not private enough, so they go to the man’s lodgings instead. Small, dusty, made out of mud and there are _apologies_ for that as he strips off his tunic – not that it’s anything to worry about, not that he’s already fascinated by dreams (now familiar dreams) of Themistokles stripping before him and Themistokles grinning while naked and Themistokles saying, “are you coming over here, then?”

He twists his hands in the man’s hair, kisses that laughing mouth fiercely and imagines that it’s Themistokles’ tongue twining with his.

He forces the man to his knees, keeps his hands tangled and imagines that it’s Themistokles smirking up at him and leaning in with talented lips.

He comes within ten minutes, remembers to simply _shriek_ upon climax and imagines a time where he can yell Themistokles’ name and feel Themistokles swallow around him and know that _Themistokles_ is happily drinking down every single drop.

A stagger backwards is necessary afterwards, a harsh grab at the wall.

“Going to return the favour?” The man and the imaginary Themistokles purr as one, both smirking up at him with a certain charm in their eyes.

…Oh.

This is a new fantasy.

But he settles into it well, even _enthusiastically_. Pushes the man down on the floor and imagines Themistokles’ stomach muscles rippling with laughter under the palm of his hand.

(“Didn’t know you wanted my cock that much,” Themistokles would purr, propping himself up on his elbows, “dear Xerxes.”)

He’s never really sucked cock before, never really felt the need for it since Themistokles would be on _his_ knees every single time, but he finds himself getting into it with an odd sort of joy. Lapping the head, hollowing his cheeks, twisting occasionally to hit the perfect angle – and he imagines Themistokles would be panting above at that, shaking on his elbows as little noises slipped out from between his slick lips.

(“ _Oh_ -“ And he’d gasp, holding onto control by such a narrow thread, “you call that a sucking? I could do better than that in my _sleep_.”)

Eventually he grows a little bored, starts to speed up to keep himself entertained. Braces one hand on the floor and keeps staring upwards – to where Themistokles’, the man’s, mouth has gone wide and glistening and _blissful_. Like he’s never experienced anything so good.

(“ _Fuck_ ,” And Themistokles would be panting by this stage, writhing on the hard floor, “I- I- Fuck, _Xerxes_.”)

When Themistokles, the man - _alright_ , comes it is a bit of a surprise – but one that he takes in his stride, with only a brief flutter of his eyes. He swallows it down, keeps his mouth tight, watches as the man huffs his name and helplessly licks his lips and imagines glorious Themistokles doing exactly the same thing – boneless and purring all because of him.

(“You endearing bastard,” Themistokles would huff, grabbing him by the arms and hauling him willingly up, “c’mere.”)

And, to his surprise, he finds himself already half hard again.

 

\--

 

The third time he _definitely_ heard of Themistokles he was twenty nine. A man, an heir, almost a _ruler_ as his father got older and older and started to shake when nobody else could see. His beard was long, his clothes were perfect and he’d started to properly flirt with women instead of just smiling.

He still only saw Thermistokles, though, Smiling, smirking, breathing his name.

He was going to become king soon, when his father died. Ruler of Persia and all the lands beyond. He would be able to start his own wars, fight his own battles, win his own victories and terrify his enemies with the most casual of waves.

Enemies like Themistokles.

Enemies like Themistokles who were capable of _beating_ him, as proved when a weary messenger burst into the court – immediately threw himself at the foot of his regent’s throne and started to babble as all stared on.

“Miltiades,” the messenger panted, swaying so desperately that it _had_ to be fresh news – carried at a breathless run across Greece and Persia and everywhere in between, “an army of Athenians. Practically no men, _definitely_ no men next to us-“

He narrowed his eyes, rose from his throne. Tried not to fist his hands as he stepped forwards to meet the news, “how many?”

“Ten thousand.”

“Ten thousand-!” He swayed a little himself, barely halted before he could fall back onto his throne and drop his head into his hands, “and how many were lost?”

The Messenger hesitated for a second. Indecisive, _weak_ \- so annoying when such vital news was only a few seconds away, “from our side or the Athenians?”

He growled, actually fisted his hands, “ _both_.”

“We lost 6,400 men, and of our ships were destroyed by a sudden Athenian counter attack,” the messenger shifted in response to that, gulped nervously in response to his glare – and so he should’ve, it was a _very_ deserved glare, “the Athenians… Lost but 192.”

And suddenly there was a ringing in his ears “…192?”

“Yes.”

…Fuck.

The messenger watched with wide eyes as he swayed again, barely resisted the temptation to grab backwards for his throne ( _barely_ \- for he’d felt like he was standing in a landslide, trying desperately to stand still as the entirely world shifted and reshaped around him) “…We killed their war-archon, though.”

“Oh,” he said, and heard it distantly – as if somebody had yelled it from the other side of some mountains, “that’s something.”

“Callimachus.”

“Right,” he looked up again with some effort, still trying not to fall over and make the whole affair even more catastrophic, “and the other… Generals? Strategoi?”

“Miltiades, as I’ve said,” the Messenger mumbled in terrified tones, lowering his dark head and staring at the ground, “and nine others: Stesilaos, Aristides, Themistokles…”

Themistokles.

_Themistokles_.

He can hardly be blamed for his fascination with the man when that name follows him everywhere he goes.

(“Did you see him?” He quizzed the messenger after he’d dismissed the court, grabbed that skinny and surprised arm and dragged to some secluded corner where no noble would dare interfere.

“Datis?” Was the immediately shaky question.

“No,” one that he answered with as much patience as he could, tightening his hand only a little as he allowed a low sigh to huff out, “ _Themistokles_.”

That’d got him a stare. A wide eyed, puzzled thing that expressed _complete_ bafflement as to why the heir, the _Persian_ heir – ruler in waiting of most of the known world, would be bothered with an unknown Athenian general – a man who hadn’t even won the battle “…Yes?”

“How did he look?” He still asked anyway. Firm, determined. Staring firmly at the man with eyes that promised _pain_ if his queries weren’t immediately dealt with, “did he speak? Did he sustain any injuries in the course of battle? Do you know if he has a wife at home? Children? Do you know if his preferences run more towards the… Male side of things?”

He received a blink at that. _Blinks_. Endless, half-confused half-terrified things that were only prevented from being insolent by a certain inner sense of self-preservation, “um…”

“ _Answer_.”

And so the Messenger did.)

 

\--

 

The night after the messenger comes (bearing such bad news, with such a terrified look upon his face) he goes wandering through the palace. Unseen, unheard – a thoughtful ghost as the business of the palace carries wearily on around him.

The Athenians have defeated them.

Not Themistokles _personally_ , the man was only mentioned amongst a mass of other (less important, far less important even if they have humiliated everything that he stands for) generals, but… The Athenians have still defeated them. And the man was there. A good luck charm, if he was one to believe in such a thing.

He sighs, softly. Lays his arms on a cool pillar and looks out over the city. From here it looks normal, even calm for a night in the middle of summer when the sun sets late and the people usually retire later, but he knows that that’s an illusion, a figment. Down below mothers are doubtlessly screeching for their lost sons, wives are stoically clenching their teeth over their lost husbands, daughters are desperately asking where their poor fathers have gone-

He draws in a deep breath.

…Moves on, leaving the city behind and heading back into the depths of the palace. Such areas are better suited for his thoughts, after all, such areas are _darker_.

The Athenians have defeated them.

His father.

_Him_.

Themistokles has helped to defeat them.

His father.

…Him.

(“What?” The man would ask were he here, perhaps after being found cheerfully leaning against some wall with his shirt off and his chest glistening with sweat, “did you think that I was mouth and nothing more?”)

He huffs, presses a hand across his face where nobody can see him. Keeps moving – step by step, onwards and onwards. Deeper into the palace and into the dark.

(“Did you believe that I was an innocent?” But Themistokles would follow him, sauntering with his head tilted, “that I was anything less than a fearsome general ready to defend my country no matter the cost?”)

It is a catastrophic loss.

(“You would defend your empire, no?”)

An awful loss.

(“Even to the death?”)

A _horrific_ loss-

(“And so you must know that I would do exactly the same,” Themistokles would continue, grabbing his arm and tugging him around, “bonds of lust, or even love, cannot affect a war such as this. Cannot make a man throw away the fate of his country just because of who he shares his bed with.”)

He leans against a wall briefly, closes his eyes. He’d like to lie and say that he feels nothing, absolutely nothing since it isn’t his responsibility _yet_ , but-

(“And so _you_ cannot believe that I will automatically pick your side,” Themistokles would whisper, lifting a warm hand to his cheek.)

-But he does feel it. Does know that choking hurt, does wonder if he could’ve done anything to save those lives, _does_ see the accusing faces of the dead every time he shuts his eyes.

(“Cannot believe that I would let this affect the war,” Themistokles would hiss, pressing their foreheads together.)

And it chokes in his throat.

(“Cannot believe that I would throw away the fate of my country,” Themistokles would murmur, giving him the briefest peck with that ever so talented mouth.)

Just as the cracking of his dreams does, harsh and painful and so sudden that he can barely breathe.

(“Cannot even believe that I would act like this, if it were real and I was actually willing,” and Themistokles would give him a final glance, with burning eyes, before disappearing into the dark.)

…He draws in another breath, opens his eyes. Starts walking again with a carefully straight back.

 

\--

 

The fourth time he heard of Themistokles (Or fifth, or sixth, or even seventh – he was a little too shaky to be sure) he was thirty four. A God, a king, a _ruler_ now that his father was dead and gone and buried in the earth. His beard was coiled between his fingers in worry, his clothes were shining gold and he was recently married.

His father had just died.

He was king, now that his father was dead. Ruler of Persia and all the lands beyond. Able to start his own wars, crush his own rebellions, make his mark upon the word and make his enemies take full and terrified notice.

…His father was dead.

He was _king_ now, God, ruler of all. His empire spanned from the setting sun to the rising sea and everybody heard when he spoke. He sat on a golden throne, listened to petitions from terrified supplicants. The world hung upon his smile or frown. He could’ve had any man he wanted if he just crooked a finger.

But the man that he _truly_ wanted was still far away and still so very hostile. And his father was still dead.

He was rather terrified himself, if he was to tell truth. He listened to supplicants, yes, and smiled and frowned and acted like a God but inside there was always this inner shaking. This tiny, scared voice that firmly reminded him that he could tumble at any moment. That his desires had betrayed him before now, even if in an indirect way. That he could trip over his feet and lose empire and face and name and every scrap of respect that he’d ever clawed over his relatively short life.

‘Help me!’ He almost screamed at his mother one day, as she told him of the great Themistokles massing ships over the horizon.

…He almost cracked his teeth keeping it in.

(And, despite himself and despite the realization that it was bad for him and despite the realization that the man probably only had a bare knowledge of his existence, he wondered if Themistokles ever felt the same. Ever felt terrified, scared, alone even when sleeping in a warm bed with a nubile wife coiled beside him. Ever felt overwhelmed by his responsibilities, like he just wanted to run shrieking into some cave and never return. Ever felt like he _could_ flee, just pack up his bags and go to some far distant place.

He wondered.

He wondered…

But, of course, he knew the answer. For Themistokles was Themistokles, with dark hair and flashing eyes and clever mouth, and Themistokles had probably never felt overwhelmed for a single moment of his life.

He was too smart for that, after all.)

 

\--

 

He dreams sometimes and by sometimes he means often. In the early evening when he’s dropping off across his desk, late at night after doing his duty to his wife, in the morning somewhere between sleep and waking.

He dreams of a few things, and he’d say more but that’s already an untenable lie and he knows it well. How can he not know it well? When he sometimes finds himself looking at his advisors and generals (just after he’s got up) and wondering if _they_ only dream of one thing. Whether that thing is perfect, glorious, when it is happening. But leaves an odd sense of doom coating their stomachs the moment they remember themselves.

…He dreams of a few things.

He dreams-

He dreams of _one_ thing.

There, that’s better. Though he might as well go the whole hog and say _person_. Yes, person – and a certain person at that: One who has been haunting (bettering, perhaps) his life for the past fifteen years. One with dark hair, flashing eyes, that _mouth_ -

(That mouth. On his, on his neck, on his collarbone, _lower_ as he fists his fingers in the sheets.)

And it isn’t just often, either, if he’s going to keep going on this all or nothing route. It’s every damned time he dares to slip off – the man dancing through his dreams when he’s drooling on his desk, apparently satisfied besides his wife, tossing in the early morning while his servants dally over who should wake him from the fever of that smirk-

(That smirk. Hot, purring, secretive, something only for him as he gasps and gasps and tosses his head back against the wall.)

And it isn’t just dreaming. Fine, if he’s going to be honest. It’s daydreaming too, nightdreaming, every time he dares to close his eyes. Themistokles is always _there_ , always purring, always flashing those teeth-

(Those teeth. Sharp, teasing, possessive in his flesh as they fuck wherever they can find space.)

And- and-

(And Themistokles knows his every nerve ending, whether he wants the man to or not. Knows where to brush, knows where to tease, knows very well that one simple word will make him fall apart – because he’s in far too deep to walk away now.) 

And he wakes up spent and sticky every single time, with the echo of Themistokles still laughing in his ear.

 

\--

 

The first time that he _properly_ met Themistokles he was thirty nine and knew that he was going to win the war. He’d grown confident in his Godhood, powerful in his kinghood, strong in his ruling now that he’d had a few years (helped by victories) to slide himself into the part.

He was going to win.

He’d, or his army – though they wouldn’t have done it without his firm leadership, beaten the ragtag bunch of Spartans at Thermopylae. His people were well trained, reasonably well fed, outnumbering the rebels by undefeatable odds.

He was going to _win_.

…And it was, of course, at that point that Themistokles came properly sauntering back into his life. Grinning that familiar grin like they hadn’t spent twenty years apart.

“I am on a secret mission for the Athenian commander,” he said.

“None of the other Greeks know that I am here,” he said.

“The message from my master is that the Greeks are in a state of panic and are planning to retreat,” he said, “you have an opportunity here to achieve a glorious victory.”

He _said_ he was a house-slave, an utterly unremarkable one going by the name of Sinnicus…

But he had spent far too long dreaming of, _aching_ for, that mouth to not recognize it.

“Wait!” And so he rose to his feet, the moment that Themistokles made to leave, forced the man to halt in the doorway – glance back at him with a raised eyebrow and only the slightest expression of worry (so brave, so very brave – so very charming with that mouth slightly pinched).

“You may leave,” he said to the _real_ slaves, the real servants. Waved them off with an annoyed hand when they stared at him like he’d gone absolutely insane, “I’ll have no further need for you tonight, go before I start removing limbs.”

“But sire-“

“Go!”

They soon scuttled out after that. Terrified, confused, going extremely fast as if to get good use out of their legs before they _were_ ripped off.

…Leaving Themistokles.

Standing alone in the middle of the floor. Mouth tightening further and further by the second as he took in the door (probably wondering how much effort it’d take to escape).

He took a few steps down from his throne, until they were both standing on the floor. Slowly walked over, until they were properly facing each other – looking each other in the eye, him tilting his head up as Themistokles tilted his head down, “I know who you are.”

Those flashing eyes, those well remembered flashing eyes, widened, “Sinnicus.”

“No,” he said, quite calmly. Resisted the urge to reach out and touch, “I have never met the man but you are not him.”

“Then who am I?”

“Somebody known very well.”

“Ah, but you know many people very well for you are the Persian king and have seen many people over your lifetime,” oh, and that mouth was just as fast as he remembered – just as talented, “you must be mistaking me for somebody else. That, or tacitly admitting your guilt at not being a very good king. And I am sure that you’re a _very_ good king, sire, so it must be the first one.”

“It isn’t,” he could only say smugly in reply to all that, “I _know_ you.”

“You know but a figment-“

“I know a very grand man indeed,” he rose his chin, tilted his head, took a step closer so their chests almost brushed, “the great Themistokles. Athenian general, Athenian lawyer, commander of the Athenian fleet… Standing right here in my throne room, what an honour.”

And Themistokles’ eyes widened for a second-

But he was still himself, gratifyingly, and so he soon recovered – that mouth twisting around yet more fantasies, “you must be mistaken.”

“No,” he still purred steadily, could not take another step forwards for then they would be properly tangled with each other (and he wasn’t sure if he could go quite that far _yet_ ), “I would know you anywhere. You are a very distinctive sort of man.”

“Ah!” With a very distinctive finger, that pointed up in a mock insulted way, “but that shows that you are bluffing: for the real Themistokles does not stand out at all!”

Oh such pretty fantasies, “doesn’t he?”

“No! He is a dust mote, a rabbit, a speck of dirt on the grand ship of life. He is a worm, a bug, an easily crushed thing that-“

“If he is your master you are talking about him in very uncomplimentary terms,” he interrupted, humming just slightly – casually, to add a sense of lightness to the occasion, “I know no slave who would do that.”

“…Ah. But I am an _Athenian_ slave.”

“Doubtlessly.”

“And so I am proud and haughty and disobedient and disloyal and utterly disrespectful of my-!”

“Even the Athenians, fools that they are, would not keep a slave that loud,” he chuckled wryly, halfway through yet another sentence (and he felt guilty for that, he did, for they were extremely pretty things), “you might as well stop pretending, Themistokles, I know you by your mouth. And you cannot disguise that no matter how hard you try.”

There was silence.

Silence…

“Fine,” until Themistokles, _Themistokles_ , tucked his hands behind his back – straightened until his bearing was that of a soldier instead of some whimpering prisoner, “are you going to execute me now? I’ve heard that you Persians have some pretty wonderful tortures to amuse yourselves with.”

Ah, the word was probably _delighted_.

“Why would I execute you after you’ve come all this way to tell me of your allegiance?” He laughed, actually _laughed_ \- barely stopped himself from putting a hand on Themistokles’ arm, “that’d be simply illogical, and I am not an illogical man.”

“…No,” Themistokles seemed surprised by that. Properly surprised, even if his eyes still whirled with thoughts.

“Even if you are, apparently,” he continued in the face of it, tilting his head slightly to get a better look into those eyes (at those thoughts, bubbling and bubbling), “why didn’t you _actually_ send a slave?”

“Variety is the spice of life,” Themistokles gave in a guarded way. Blinking once, twice, three times and slowly starting to smile, “and I was getting bored in that room with all my false friends. They probably haven’t missed me, yet another reason why they’ll be so easy to betray.”

“Yes,” he nodded “…You’ll honestly betray them for me?”

“I have no loyalty to them,” Themistokles only shrugged. Eyes settled now, smirking… Flirtatious? “I’d much rather be here. Amongst my true, loyal friends.”

He laughed, again (it was hard not to under those eyes), “you have the measure of us.”

“Indeed,” Were there-? No, there couldn’t possibly have been any double meanings in that. Themistokles’ face was too open for anything so dark, “and quite a charming measure it is too. Charming, just, handsome…”

And suddenly he found himself blinking, “handsome?”

“Your guards caught my eye the moment I entered,” Themistokles took in his expression for a long moment, burst into a pealing laugh – just as wonderful (hot, _maddening_ as it wriggled its way under his fevered skin) as he had always imagined, “but not as much as you did.”

“…Oh?” He was blinking again.

“You are _very_ handsome, after all,” and Themistokles moved closer, smirking all the way. One step so they were properly touching – thigh to shoulder, “and charming, and the Persian king, and my loyal ally now. Fancy making me swear allegiance?”

…He gulped.

Licked his lips, watched in a spellbound way as Themistokles’ eyes traced his every move, “I’ve never required that from any of my other subjects.”

“Ah,” and those eyes, those tracing eyes, were as dark as he had dreamed them, “but I’m not any of your doubtlessly magnificent other subjects, am I?”

…He shook his head.

And Themistokles’ mouth, hot and perfect and long dreamed of and _hot_ , came down upon his – and banished all coherent thought with one flick of that talented tongue.

 

\--

 

The kiss is somehow, and he really isn’t sure of the _how_ here, both exactly what he imagined and nothing like it. Hot and hard, shy and retiring, inviting and determined – so many contradictions, changing by the second, that he feels completely swept off his feet.

“Oh,” he can only gasp, as they break apart for air and Themistokles nuzzles down his throat (little pinpricks of teeth, sending heat right down to his cock), “ _Oh_.”

“Is that it?” Themistokles only murmurs into his collarbone, arms tight around him (though, of course, he’s barely focused on that – not with those teeth properly starting to _nip_ ), “aren’t you going to pray to your gods? Swear profusely? _Writhe_?”

He considers this for a second.

…It’s very hard to consider that for a second when you have a man (and a mouth) that you’ve dreamed about for twenty odd years pressed _right up against you_.

“I am ashamed to admit it,” he says slowly, strangledly as Themistokles draws back with a _shining_ mouth, “but the only Gods I can think of at the moment are me and my father.”

“Oh,” Themistokles seems to think about this, his tongue traces his lips as he does so (it’s very distracting), “a bit awkward, then.”

“Indeed,” he answers, before Themistokles can get into quite how awkward it really _is_ (very, very, very, so many verys that they could probably populate a city), “but the swearing and writhing? …Mm, I can manage those.”

Themistokles’ grin is amazing, it sends pleasured shudders right down his spine, “that’s a king… Want to be sitting down while you prove that, though?”

He blinks “…Do I?”

“I have been known to make knees melt,” and Themistokles’ _smirk_ … Oh, there are no words for it. Only a pulse of all consuming lust that nearly makes his gaze white out, “I’d really hate to humiliate a magnificent king in such a way.”

He _whimpers_ -

Okay, okay. He can _do_ this. He raises his chin, slides his arms around that thick neck and gives his most seductive smile (which isn’t very seductive, granted, but any effort is going to look paltry when _Themistokles_ is in the room), “I suppose it’s best to be on the safe side.”

“Oh, most of the time” …His eyes sparkled again at that.

But he has no time, no time at _all_ , to try and pick that sparkle apart. He isn’t expecting to be lifted up, He’s _king_ for heaven’s sake, but when he’s in Themistokles’ arms he finds he doesn’t really mind it – he can wrap his legs around thick hips, brace himself on strong shoulders, find himself perfectly _level_ with that still smirking mouth-

It’s almost disappointing in the end, when he’s dumped on the throne and Themistokles is taller than him yet again.

“That’s not fair,” and so he knows his voice shakes, he _knows_ he sounds a bit like that nineteen year old he was so long ago, but he doesn’t really care, “get down here.”

“Oh,” Themistokles, _fuck_ , actually _purrs_ \- bending down for the briefest (sweetest, definitely sweetest) peck, “I’ll do far more than _that_.”

…What?

But-

Fucking _fuck_.

_But_ he doesn’t have to wait for long. For Themistokles is soon sliding to his knees, smirking up at him with a certain knowledge in his gaze, licking his lips in a way that draws attention to his _mouth_ (so sinful. So sinful and perfect and wonderful and he’s never desired something so much in all his life).

“Do you mind?” Themistokles asks, raising an eyebrow.

And there’s a screech on the edge of his tongue, on the very _tip_ , that’d shatter the ship and whip up storms and terrify all his enemies and convince Themistokles of just how _little_ he minds this and how, in fact, he’d do absolutely _anything_ to have it and- and-

“No,” he squeaks instead, barely finding his mouth.

…And he would feel more embarrassed (does feel _quite_ embarrassed), yes-

But that, _that_ of all things, gets a shining bright (utterly captivating) laugh from Themistokles. And then the man is leaning in and hitching up his tunic and all embarrassment over the matter is swept away by an entirely blissful tide.

The man has obviously, _obviously_ , done this before. He takes him deep immediately, almost to the back of his throat. Waits there for a second, as if taking the time to consider the taste.

The twist of his tongue, then, is something in between agony and heaven. The way he doesn’t move back, even when he bucks up from the chair and _whines_ under his breath, is something much the same. Themistokles licks as if he’s tasting fine delicacies, moves his tongue as if he’d rather be right here (on his _knees_ ) than at any grand banquet.

It is an impression confirmed, wonderfully confirmed (hopefully confirmed), when he starts to _bob_ \- up and down, up and down, moving his lips perfectly with every move. It is enough to make him go faint, his head _thunking_ against the back of the chair. The only thing keeping him on the planet the rough feeling of Themistokles’ hair between his fingers (the rough feeling of Themistokles’ lips on his _cock_ ).

But Themistokles, obviously, does not _want_ to keep him on the planet – not with the way that he hollows his cheeks. Pressure suddenly wet and hot and perfect around his cock and ah. _Ah_.

…It does not take much after that.

It only, in fact, takes Themistokles swallowing him down. And suddenly he’s boneless on his throne, limp and shuddering as Themistokles laps up every single drop.

…Fuck.

Mm.

_Fuck_.

“Did you enjoy that?” Themistokles grins, wide and charming and so very attractive as he rocks back on his heels and swipes his tongue over his lips.

“Yes,” he answers in shellshocked tones, for it’s the only thing he _can_ answer.

…But then his hands are on Themistokles’ arms, dragging him up, dragging him into his lap with all the slightly crazed determination that comes after an orgasm as truly _amazing_ as that, “ _Yes_. And I really must reward you for it.”

“Oh, you’ve rewarded me enough,” Themistokles _smirks_ , and allows himself to be pulled up anyway.

 

\--

 

He was forty four when he next heard of Themistokles. A fallen God, a failed king, a humiliated ruler bested by a tiny nation of city states and savages.

And he simply turned away.

(…He turned _away_.)


End file.
